David Golemon: Leviathan

As he turned to look back toward the cave's opening, knowing the sun had set, he began planning. His brilliant mind was regaining its edge and complex thought was becoming easy once more. His thoughts were cutting through the detritus of a world that wanted what he had — command of the sea.

In the fading light of the dying torch, there was movement in the water. With wild and insane eyes Deveroux believed his horrid memories of the past years were returning in the form of men to reclaim his soul. As he slowly slid to the softened sand, he saw for the first time the true magic, the real treasures of the sea — and they were beautiful.

Deveroux stared at the magical creatures as they in turn watched him from below the crystal-clear waters of the cave. Gold, diamonds, and emeralds — they all paled in comparison to the miracle his eyes now beheld. Fantasy mixed with reality — biblical stories with that of fairy tales. It was there before him in the waters, legend, myth, and sea-tales. Reality and clarity of mind beckoned him. Then suddenly the clear-skinned, glowing, angellike mermaids were gone as if they had never been. The darkness, the sea breeze, and the sound of life slowly returned to his ears as a plan began to form for revenge and a reason to live once more.

Now he would claim the sea as his own.

The old professor leaned closer to the makeshift gauge. The needle hovered at the 98 percent mark. He noted this fact in his journal and then looked up and tapped the gauge once more, making the needle jump minutely, only to settle back into the same position as before. He smiled. After twenty-seven hours, the electrical charge remained high.

He laid his pen inside the journal and closed it. He stretched and as he did, he saw his young son, twelve-year-old Octavian, lying peacefully on the makeshift bed in the far corner of the laboratory. Professor Heirthall, the man once known as Roderick Deveroux, pulled out his pocket watch and saw it was nearly two thirty in the morning. He shook his head and then decided to check his connections one last time.

Half of the large laboratory space was taken up with three hundred small, boxlike cubes. They were stacked on metal shelving that ran floor to ceiling. The mountain of material gave off deep shadows in the dim, gas-lantern-illuminated lab as the professor walked to the main cable connection and felt the insulation. He quickly removed his hand and then pulled out his journal. He checked the thermometer connected to the thick copper cable and then found the reading for his last entry. The cable's temperature was up sixteen degrees from the last mark two hours ago. It was now reading 120 degrees. This was a problem. The thick cable was not going to hold up for the duration of the electrical charge. Either his cables needed to be thicker, which was not beneficial to his end goals, or he would have to find a way to keep the metal cooler inside the leather insulation.

"Father, have you considered letting the sea cool your battery lines?"

The professor turned to see his son sitting up on his cot. He was propped on one elbow and yawned as he looked at his father.

"The sea? Do you mean run the cables outside of the enclosure?" he asked.

The boy placed his feet on the floor and pulled the blanket around his shoulders as he stood and slowly shuffled to where his father was standing.

"No, sir," he said through a yawn. "I am aware that seawater would invade the coiled copper wire inside the insulation, and corrupt it. However, would it not cool if cocooned in rubber, the same material as your batteries and inside a metal guard, inches from the cooling waters of the sea?"

"You mean as veins, like in a human arm, just under the surface?"

In answer, the twelve-year-old yawned once more, nodding his head.

"You must get your intelligence from your mother, for I am constantly overlooking the obvious," he said as he tousldeged the boy's thick black hair. "You have a remarkable spark of intelligence bouncing around in that head of yours."

The admiration and love for his son was evident. The boy had been with him throughout the summer months, and was here with him now instead of enjoying his winter break for the Christmas holidays. Ever since the breakthrough in the spring, when his revolutionary electrical storage system began to show promise, the boy had been by his side, forsaking even the warmer company of his mother, Alexandria.

The boy had only been ten years old when he had completed the final assembly of the combustion motor. Converted from a steam piston drive, the motor was also revolutionary and very, very secret. Still, even at that young age, Octavian had figured out that the pump used to relay fuel into the combustion chamber was inefficient, just by studying its operation. He had tinkered with his father's design, and in three months, using only scrap parts, the boy had pieced together what he called a distilled kerosene-injection pump that utilized the motor itself for power. Kerosene derived from the recent discovery of crude oil from America. It had failed the first three times, and then when they had figured a way to filter the fine spray of kerosene, removing the impurities of the refined oil, it had not failed since.

Professor Heirthall smiled at his son and then pulled his pocket watch out of his white coat once more and examined it.

"Almost three A.M. Octavian; your mother is going to throw me into the fjord."

"Of all people, Mother knows you get lost in your work. She will be fine and fast asleep."

"Yes, I suspect so, but nevertheless I will call the carriage and have you taken home."

"Father, my time is wasted at home. Mother only talks of what a great man I will one day be."

The professor replaced his journal and smiled.

"The part of her that needs it will never feel the spray or touch of the sea again. This is a sad fact to her, son. Your mother, well — part of her is a very special woman, from very, very special people. And because they were special, and are still so, we have this," he said as he gestured around the laboratory. "All this is for them. We are dedicated to the sea, Octavian — it is in your blood, quite literally. Without that special part of her, your mother would have died a very long time ago."

The boy had ceased listening and was instead standing in front of the mountain of black rubber-encased batteries. He pulled the blanket around him tighter and was lost in his own world.

"Are you dreaming your underwater dreams again, Octavian?"

The boy turned toward his father and smiled, embarrassed.

"Is the story true — I mean, what people are saying about you?"

Heirthall was taken back by the sudden change in topic.

"You mean my magical escapades upon the sea, and of being a prisoner of Napoleon? Yes, it is all true. As for the treasure of King Richard — no, I'm afraid our wealth is derived from a long line of inheritance. Nothing as dashing and daring, I would think, as the rumors from France or other tall tales told in other countries."

Heirthall knew he wasn't fooling Octavian. The boy was just too smart for his own good. Not once did he ask about portraits of family heritage from either side — even though he knew other families of wealth had them. Yes, the boy knew the stories were true, but he had yet to guess the real secret of the Heirthall family. That would take a delicate touch.

Deveroux had met Alexandria after his escape and revenge upon Napoleon. She had been young, vital, and loving toward him at the first moment of meeting. Then, after the birth of Octavian, she had become weak and bedridden. Consumption, the doctors had told him. Only the intervention of the Deveroux angels had kept her alive all of these years. Now, even their grace from death was ending. The solution to her health was now her killer. He now feared Octavian — their precious offspring — might be cursed to the same fate as his mother. He was physically weak, and his blood held too much of his mother's.